A letter to my wife, Mrs. Felicity Fenton: Dear FF,
I had a long dream about you last night involving an Antarctic prom dress. You were to wear the dress without shivering. Those were the orders from your subordinates who you didn't like very much. They had drippy scowls on their faces and poked at you with an arm they removed from some dead guy. You didn't like that very much either. I'm certainly glad that was just a dream and not reality. I couldn't bear it if you were being tortured with an ice dress and a stinky cadaver.
Still, I do think there is some truth to the dream. You've been looking a tad forlorn this week. Something about our eyes and the way they droop a little to the right. I certainly hope you have been taking the time to nourish yourself. I know it rains alot in Portland, but you have always been good about getting outside despite the ick falling from the sky. Drink a glass or six of water. Roll around on the floor. Sing me a tune in Spanish about a lost mustache. I think that should suffice for now.
Off to tickle my terrible.